


The Five Times that Taught Steve Rogers to Breathe

by 401



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Casual Sex, Emotional Baggage, Love, Mild Smut, Multi, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 21:12:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6393943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/401/pseuds/401
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Steve Rogers was not a virgin, out of practice and under-experienced, but not a virgin."</p><p>Steve had to do some searching before he learned how to breathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Five Times that Taught Steve Rogers to Breathe

Steve Rogers was not a virgin. Out of practice and under-experienced, sure. But not a virgin.

 

There had been five times.

 

Louisa from Target. Steve had smiled to himself as she had stood on tiptoes, wobbling like a bowling pin to reach the last packet of vacuum packed provolone on the top shelf. He had gotten it down for her and watched her try and keep a straight face when she realised who he was. There had been 3 dates before _it_ happened. She was sweet, a kindergarten teacher with a voice like vanilla ice-cream and an Italian surname that Steve had pronounced wrong every time. She had smelt of magnolia soap and her hair had fallen in silky tresses that tickled his neck when she kissed him. She had been a good kisser and the way she had said his name was drawn out and adoring.

 

Katie had been second. Steve had fallen for her as soon as he saw her, then cursed himself for ogling. It was all forgiven when Maria Hill had pointed out her skirt and said something along the lines of “A nice taste of home for you, huh?”. The skirt was blossom pink in a Forties style and swung about her knees when she walked, the widest part of the A-line twisting when she moved her hips to the music blaring in the bar they were drinking at and her hair was flaming orange, arranged in pin rolls on her head. Steve had asked her to dance.

 

She had made Steve blush when she laughed at him, teasing in a way that didn’t offend but left you hanging off of her opinion like a loose thread. Her lipstick was the colour of glace cherries. She had a sugar skull tattoo on her right buttock a metal stud in her tongue that Steve had hated. _Until he felt it_. He finally understood what Sam had meant by “take your girls freakier than you”.

 

Then there was Natasha. _The Natasha._ They had been on a mission and she had cried all night, battered and bruised and the pain of failure and six lost men taking its toll. She only ever did this in front of Steve, sometimes coming to his office with a look of stony shock on her face that Steve now knew how to handle. She would sit on the faux leather couch with tense fists for only a few minutes before the tears would silently role. He could always sense whether distance or affection was needed, whether he needed to navigate around his desk and hold her or stand back and do very ‘Steve-y’ things as she called them, humming to himself, bumping into things when he forgot his own height. This time, in the concrete bunker they were sharing, Steve had watched the sadness turn to rage and let Nat fly at him in a hurricane of fear and profanities. She had stopped with her hands balled in his hair and realised that Steve was everything she needed him to be at that moment; stronger than her anger. Her lips had crashed against his in a wave and he matched it with heat he had never felt before, something between lust and frustration and it was curling in his stomach and moving his mouth and his hips and he didn’t feel to stop it. They hadn’t spoken about it after, but the sound of a metal cot bed smacking against a concrete wall still played in his head whenever he saw her mad.

 

There had been Mercy too. Mercy was incredible. She had danced so well that Steve had forgotten that he was dreadful and she smelled like the summer. Her skin had transfixed him, darker than Sam’s and glossy, dappled with milky patches of vitiligo over her shoulders. She had been tentative to let him see, explaining that she had been bullied for it as a child when she lived in Ghana. Steve had spent half an hour kissing each of the rosy blotches until she had swatted him away and told him to get on with it, her lips, painted dark purple curling into a magnificent smile that Steve still thought about. She had been a whole different game; strong, thick and solid under his hands in a way that made him feel safe.

 

Then there was Bucky. He was the one time that Steve had not realised he had needed until it was right there, and then it was all he could see. Like oxygen, you don’t think about needing it until you hold your breath. Bucky was Steve’s oxygen, and he hasn’t stopped breathing since.


End file.
